Nyctophilia - The 124th Hunger Games
by RueThisDay
Summary: "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. In the dark, the man with a candle is an easy target."
1. - Prologue -

_Nyctophilia (n.)_

 _Love of darkness or night._

 _Finding relaxation or comfort in the darkness._

* * *

The clock was ticking. She could hear it, echoing between the trees in the gaping silences between her breaths and her footsteps.

 _Tick. Tock._

 _Tick. Tock._

Louder than her heartbeat, rushing in her ears; more terrifying than the horror stories she had heard about this place, passed around on campfires in hushed voices and returning in moments of innocent silence, turning every creak of a floorboard into a threat. Ghosts, witches, spirits - all the things that once wandered through her nightmares - all seemed to fade to insignificance in the terrible shadow of now.

How long had she been running? Her legs had given up complaining long ago, and now just pretended that they weren't suffering the most pain thry had ever suffered. An icy numbness filled her, the aching, clawing fear the only thing she could still feel. Her veins no longer pumped blood, but liquid terror. She breathed adrenaline.

The forest began to get denser. Trees crowded in towards her, their branches reaching out to pull at her hair and tear thin lines of red-hot pain in her face. Roots twisted up to trip her, and her own agility surprised her as she dodged them.

Every breath ripped at her lungs. Every step took everything out of her.

But the clock ticked.

And so she ran.

* * *

 **a/n: shortest prologue ever. but, hey, kudos to me for hella intrigue and mystery, amiright?**

 **(sorry not sorry)**

 **anyway, although this entire chapter seems completely unrelated to anything even a little bit Hunger Games-y, this is, in fact, an syot. so, pm me for the form & other details and that. make sure you let me know which tribute you want to reserve (and i'll let you know if it's taken or not) and offff wee goooo...**

 **p.s: updates will happen when i get enough tributes for updating to be worth it. :)**

 **p.p.s: luv ya all**

 **k byeee**


	2. Andronicus & Nora

**so, here's how this is going to work: i have around 19 characters (too many? probably. too late to do anything about that? definitely). each character has their own POV. my job is to make them all different and interesting; your job is to keep up with my complete lack of ability to do so. each character gets to narrate one thing before the arena (reapings, train, interviews - all that), and once we're in the arena, it's just a free-for-all of whoever is the most interesting at the time being the one who narrates. there will be around ten pre-arena chapters. this is the first: the day of the reapings, narrated by the wonderful Andronicus/Adriatus Lockvale and Nora Liu.**

 **enjoy! ^_^**

* * *

 _Adriatus Lockvale, District Two_

 _Reaping Day, 4am_

* * *

The cold, uncaring walls of the hospital glare down on us, throwing the sounds of my mother's sobs back towards me as my father mutters words of comfort to her and tries to pretend he isn't about to cry.

Perhaps I should be crying too. Perhaps I'm as uncaring as these walls for not wailing along with my mother. But it doesn't seem real yet. Perhaps I'll wake up soon, and tell Andronicus about the ridiculous dream I had where he died the day before he volunteered. And he'll laugh and call me a weak wimp for caring.

But I know this is a nightmare I will never wake up from.

Then they come. The tears. They pour down my face like waterfalls of pain, because how many times have I hated him? How many times have I wished to be the only twin, to not be second best to his perfection?

Oh, Andronicus, you absolute idiot. You foolish, stupid, arrogant, narcissistic... Screw you. Screw you for being so good, and screw you for leaving me. What about our plans, Andronicus? You, me, Victors' Village... Screw that. Screw you.

I turn my head away from my father, hiding my tears behind my blond mess of a fringe. Andronicus wouldn't want father to be disappointed in me.

The door at the far end of the room swings open, and a furious Petra Leonhardt storms in, her blonde hair sticking out from behind her head like a terrifying halo in the harsh hospital lights. Petra is a mentor and a legend here in Two. She won her Games aged only fourteen and using just her hands. My brother is honoured to be trained by her.

Was. He was honoured.

 _Oh, Andronicus..._

"Mr and Mrs Lockvale?" Her dark eyes burn holes in my parents, and a shiver runs through me. The room temperature seems to have dropped under her icy glare. "I have heard that Andronicus is dead."

My mother and I flinch at the certainty of the last word. _Dead._ A scream rises in my throat. _Don't call him that, you bitch. He isn't that._

"I am afraid that is true," my father says, meeting Petra's gaze.

"But he was this year's volunteer." Her voice cracks ever so slightly, and I almost see some emotion on her face. Then it goes. "He can't be. He can't be dead." If she weren't so good at hand-to-hand, I would launch myself at her. _He was not yours to lose._

Or was he? He spent far more time with her than with me, I'm sure. She probably knew him better than any of us.

"Your family promised to provide Two with a volunteer," Petra says, her voice monotonous and stern again. "Now you are breaking that promise. Do you know the consequences of this?" _We haven't done anything. This is your fault, if anyone's._ "Mr and Mrs Lockvale, your children will be sent to the District Advancement for Elite Youth Academy, and you will both be publicly executed."

My father stands. "What are we supposed to do? Andronicus is dead! None of our other children can go. They aren't trained, they'll-"

"I'll do it."

Petra and my parents stare at me. I clench my teeth against the urge to sit down and hide again. _Andronicus would have wanted you to stay strong._

"Good," Petra says. Her voice is crisp and efficient, as though I have solved all her problems, but I can see the pain she is trying to hide. Perhaps she pities me. Perhaps she is ashamed to know that District Two will not provide a male victor this year. Perhaps it hurts to see me, standing here, so similar to Andronicus but not quite the boy she spent all ten of her mentoring years training.

"No one even needs to know Andronicus is... Is gone." The words are coming from my mouth, but I feel no attachment to them. "I can become him."

 _No, that's an awful idea._ _Stop this._ But my parents look at me with hope in their grief-stricken eyes. What is the alternative? Them, executed; little Darius, my brother, learning how to kill at only seven. I couldn't live with that.

I have to do this.

 _Oh, Andronicus. What have we done?_

* * *

 _Nora Liu, District Ten  
_

 _Reaping Day, 7am_

* * *

Nora opens her eyes and, for half a second, it is a normal day. And then the solid weight of the day falls onto her chest, and breathing goes back to being difficult again.

Reaping Day.

 _This_ Reaping Day.

Swarms of tracker jackers buzz around her insides as she climbs out of bed, wincing at the pain across her thighs from last night's cuts. She leaves the curtains closed, so as to not disturb Lia, dresses in the half-light and slips through to the kitchen.

A loaf of bread sits on the side. Breakfast would be sensible, but when has she ever been sensible?

Remembering Lia's peaceful sleeping face, she closes the door silently, pulling her hood up as if to protect her face from the world. Or maybe the other way round. She looks up through her eyelashes at the sky. It is infuriatingly blue, the sun streaming down onto the roofs of the houses of District Ten. Something about that jars with her; did no one tell the weather that it is Reaping Day? Did no one let it know that today is a terrible, terrible day?

By the time she gets to her hiding place, however, it is starting to cloud over. It may even be raining by this afternoon. Perfect. Just in time. Nora smiles at the clouds, rolls her shoulders back and settles into the only place in the whole of Panem where she feels like herself. It may only be a damp little corner of a disused barn, but it smells safe. It is all Nora needs.

Feather is probably wondering where she is, but Nora isn't in a people mood this morning. Poetry is much easier to deal with: so much more understanding. Her fingers run over the worn pages of her notebook, feeling the verses already written there.

The buzzing tracker jackers dissolve in her words.

* * *

 _Reaping Day, 12pm_

The Reaping starts in twenty-nine minutes and ten seconds. Nora knows this because she has been counting since 11am. She has been ready for the last half hour, but Lia hasn't and Nora needs to talk to her sister before she goes.

To say goodbye.

Not that Lia will know that is what it is. She can't know; she might try to stop it from happening. And if she tried, she would succeed.

"I'm ready, Nor!" Lia's shiny face pokes around the door. She is only eleven, with big dark eyes and unnaturally tan skin from days spent in the fields. A mini Nora. _But better. So much better. And you know it, Nora._

The rest of Nora's family will be leaving soon, but Nora doesn't want to spend this time with them. Only Lia. The eleven year old seems to sense her older sister's unrest, and, knowing that to pry is the worst thing to do, they walk to the square in silence.

Rain starts to fall as promised, soaring down and crash-landing on Nora's face. If she could afford eye makeup or be bothered with it, it would be running now. The drops trickle over Lia and Nora's intertwined hands.

Up ahead, the square looms; they will have to split up soon. The finality of it all is like concrete in Nora's lungs and she is scared she will suffocate.

"Okay, Lia." The words are no more than a whisper, almost lost in the sea of people around them. "I have to go now." _Forever._

Lia smiles that perfect smile of hers and wraps her thin arms around her big sister's waist. _She is so thin._ _With you gone, she'll be able to eat more. You should have left before, then she wouldn't be this thin now._

"I love you so much, Lia." A rare tear slides down Nora's face, mixing with the rain as she wraps her favourite person in the whole world in a huge hug. "Stay safe, yeah? Promise me you'll stay safe."

"It's only a Reaping. I'll see you soon, Nor!" Lia beams at Nora and disappears into the non-eligible viewing area.

And Nora isn't sure how it happens, but she is in the right roped-off pen, at the edge, and the escort is sliving the slip of paper open.

 _This is it. This. Is. It._

She wobbles over to the microphone.

 _Don't fail this time._

Opens her mouth to read the name.

 _Finally embrace the fate you deserve._

"Lucy Brauckmann!"

 _Do it!_

Nora steps out under the rope.

 _Say it! Say it now!_

"I volunteer!"

* * *

 _Adratius Lockvale, District Two  
_

 _Reaping Day, 1am_

* * *

The rain beats down on the expectant people of Two, as though trying to wash away the escort and Petra and the other mentors, sitting at the back, and my parents, watching with their stomachs tied in knots like mine. I want to drown in it. I want to world to drown.

"And now the boys."

I think I am going to throw up all over the shoes of the boy next to me. My heartbeat is like thunder in my ears.

"Timothy Wheeler!"

My feet are glued to the ground. It seems to take years to step forward.

"Any volunteers?"

District Two holds its breath. The silence is thick and all-emcompassing, like snow.

And then my voice calls across the square. "I volunteer as tribute."

Who knows how my feet move me to the stage, but they do, and, by incredible luck, I manage to climb the stairs without tripping, and even attempt my brother's signature cocky smile.

"And who are you?"

I swallow Adratius. The rain washes him away.

"I am Andronicus Lockvale."


	3. Cavandar & Farrow

**guess who's back with another slightly odd and difficult to follow chapter for you all! this chapter is going to be the goodbyes (narrated by Cavandar Belle) and the train journey (narrated by Farrow Beaumont). i'm pretty sure Farrow's POV will be literally nonsense but it was a lot of fun to write. just don't take him too seriously. :3**

 **also, i had a great character called Petra Leonhardt in the last chapter. remember her? the mentor for district two? she was meant to be my district two girl, but she got given back to kashew klick, her creator, and now she has her own story. it's called philophobia, and you should definitely read it because it's made of awesomeness.**

 **anyway. this chapter. let's do it.**

* * *

 _Cavandar Belle, District Eight Female_

 _Reaping Day, 1.30pm_

* * *

All my life, I have felt trapped. Trapped by the secrets I keep; trapped by the fence around my District; trapped by my parents' image of who I am supposed to be. Like a song bird in a cage, I have always wished to be free. I have dreamed of going to the places beyond Eight's factories, where no one cares who my father is or who I love or whether or not my parents should be proud of me for wearing that dress today. Just me, free to have an adventure.

And now I am leaving.

But, staring out of the window in a small room in the Justice Building at the blurry, colourless world beyond, this certainly doesn't feel like an adventure.

The door swings open and my mother appears, my father a little way behind.

"Cavandar..." Mother pulls me into a big hug, her eye makeup running down her face and onto mine. "My little girl..."

"Mum, I-"

"Darling, listen. You're pretty, you can win sponsors. Find a Capitol boy, my dear, maybe he can buy you out of it!"

"Mum, I don't think-"

"You can shine, sweetheart. Don't lose hope."

"I won't, Mum."

"I love you, Cavandar."

"I love you, too." I mean it.

A single tear tracks down my face. My mother is controlling and pressurising but I love her. So, so much.

I have to get back home to her. She tried for so long to get me, I can't take that away from her, too.

My father steps forward. "Come home to me, won't you, Cavandar?" I nod, afraid of my voice cracking if I speak. The dull light from the window catches on my father's wet cheeks, and all the colours that were left in the world seem to slip away. Dad never cries. Never.

The three of us look at each other in silence. There is nothing more to say. A Peacekeeper opens the door and my parents both give me one last hug and leave.

They are replaced by Brian.

"Cavandar..." he whispers. "Oh my-"

He is cut off by my lips on his.

"Brian," I whisper against his mouth.

"Cavandar."

We have been a couple for four months, although it feels like a lifetime. I still remember dancing with him in the glorious rain on my balcony, on our first date. His hands in mine, the rain pouring down, both of us laughing together. The lightning lighting our faces as we discovered each other, together.

He cups my face with his hands, kissing the freckles across my nose. More tears escape from my eyes, my emotions overflowing from inside me and spilling down my cheeks. This may be the last time I ever see him.

"I love you."

His brown eyes fill my world. He is my everything.

"I love you, too."

Gently, his hands come to rest on my shoulders. "Do you want me to tell Lacey?"

Something twists in my stomach at the thought of Lacey's face when she is told that I have been dating her brother for four months, despite her adamant objections to it right from the start. The idea of that being her last memory of me... It is as nauseating as Capitol perfume.

"I... I can't leave her with that. That can't be what she remembers me for."

Brian looks at me. "I see." His lips are twisted slightly, but he nods. "How about this: we'll tell her together. When you get home."

"I may not-"

His smile is rueful. How can a smile ever be so sad? "Well, there's your incentive."

Our foreheads touch. "I already have one of those," I whisper, finding his hands and interlacing his fingers with mine.

"Promise me, Cavandar. Promise me you'll come home, so we can tell Lacey together."

The door is flung open, and two gloved hands grip Brian's arms, tearing him away from me.

"Brian!"

"Do you promise? Cavandar?"

"I-"

The door slams.

"I promise."

* * *

 _Farrow Beaumont, District Nine Male_

 _The Train Journey. 4pm._

* * *

"Are you listening, boy?" The weirdo escort peers at me from behind her mirror. "This could be important, you know."

I shrug. Nah, I'm not listening. The landscape flying past outside is more interesting. There's, like, miles of it. Miles and miles and miles and miles and...

Imagine how many birds live in that lot. Like... Wow. That's a lot of birds, man.

The escort person is still talking, and my frazzled-haired district partner is still listening and asking all these, like, complicated questions, but I just can't deal with that right now, you know? Their words run off me like rain water from the leaves of a tree. I am a rock in a river, and their seriousness is the water.

Yeah.

Urgh, they both sound so stressed. Like, urgent, you know? Man, this sucks. I don't want to be near their negatives vibes. Like a mountain, I rise above it, and like a stream, I flow away.

Unlike a stream, I walk to my quarters or whatever on the train. It's cold and, like, so unnatural it hurts my hair. Everything smells of whatever the opposite of nature is, and the air tastes of a serious lack of life. As if I wasn't, like, depressed enough. Ew.

Man, there's a window, though. At least there's that.

The glass of the window pane is like a cage, keeping me from where I belong: the woods. With my face pressed right up against the window like this, I can almost see the individual trees, each one a paradise of life for tonnes of birds and beetles and... Like... More birds.

Trees are so cool, you know, man? They know how to chill.

Back in Nine, they were my safe place. No matter what was going on - being told I had to, like, go to school, rants from my parents about the importance of education or whatever. All that - it didn't matter in the trees. All the stress faded into something as insignificant as a single leaf in the whole of the forest.

And, like, in the trees, they have my birds, yeah? Maverick, the one who pecks me; Raven, the dead cute little robin; and, of course, Farrow jr., the only son I will ever want. Birds are way better than humans, they're way more chill... Like snowflakes.

Yeah. Snowflakes.

"What the hell are you doing?"

What? Who is it? I peel my face off the window to see Miss Electric-hair-and-like-no-chill giving me this weird look. I turn my head sideways so I can see her aura better. And, yeah, it's, like, this beige colour. Man, that sucks. People like that turn your aura all muddy. They're so, like, stressful. It's making my hair hurt all over again.

I tell her this and her face does this weird twisted thing, like, I don't know, man, a rotted tree or whatever.

"You're going to die in the Games," she says.

"We're playing games? I thought we were, like, fighting to the death in this really unchilled way."

"I give up," she mutters, and the door slams on her way out.

Man, these negative vibes are really so bad for my chill levels. I can feel my aura getting all orangey already.


	4. Gianna & Saige

**why hello there. welcome to intro chapter the third, featuring Gianna "Gigi" Flemming (narrating the remake process) and Saige Tremaine (narrating the parade). thank you for all your lovely reviews. i'm basically fuelled by reviews. review if you wanna go faster, guys! whoo!**

 **oh yeah, you also all need to submit to Thunder and Lightning on IVolunteerAsAuthor's profile. it's a collab betwee him (Caleb) and betttyy (Jenna) and it's gonna be epic.**

 **but only after you've read this chapter, ofc.**

 ** _also_ , barnie is a tribute i made up solely for this chapter. he's gonna die in the bloodbath. sorry.**

 **(jk not sorry)**

 **enjoy. :)**

* * *

 _Gianna Flemming, District One Female  
_

 _The Remake Centre, 2pm_

* * *

And here I am. The Capitol.

Wow.

Wow, it's amazing. No wonder everyone here cares so much about what they look like: every surface is glass, reflecting colourful faces and elaborate dresses. The buildings glitter in the midday sun, shining and sparkling. It's so beautiful.

From up here, outside my remake room, you can see hundreds of glistening tower blocks, their top floors lost in the thin, whispy clouds. If I were at this height in District One, I would probably be able to see the whole district, but here, the edge of the Capitol disappears in the distance - too far away to see. Buildings and roads and windows sprawl for miles. Below me, the street is a sea of colour. Capitolites dressed up in crazy dresses with even crazier head garments stroll about the pavements, people more dye than natural colour. It is mesmerising. Breathtaking.

My prep team call to me from my remake room. I take one last look and a deep breath, then step through.

A particularly blue Capitolite introduces herself and her two assistants as my prep team. "We won't need to do too much for you, honeybun," she says, the gemstones that replace her pupils and irises glinting.

They strip me down, my skin as pale as the moon in this awfully unflatteringly harsh light.

"Your skin is so pure. I should get mine dyed this colour," says the pale pink lady. But I can feel every spot and blemish and scar as they wash me and rub me with an assorment of strange, fancy lotions.

And: "baby grapefruit, your hair is gorgeous," says the red and gold Capitolite. "Midnight black is so mysterious." But it feels bland and dull as they wash it, especially when they are running their bright nails through it as it dries.

"Your figure is to die for," says the blue one. "I wonder if I can afford waist surgery this year." But the mirrored walls of the room reflect my fat rolls back at me, despite the sit ups I've been doing for months in training.

"Darling, the Capitol are going to eat you up, you delicious thing," the red and gold one says as I redress myself. I think it's supposed to be a compliment.

And I remember training in One. My Dad trained me at home, because I was too scared to go to the Academy and spend every day surrounded by blondes in sports bras and bum shorts, their legs stretching for miles, their smiles blinding boys to how mean they could be. How evil their intentions really were. At home, I couldn't hear their whispers behind my back.

"I bet boys just threw themselves at you back home," the pink one enthuses.

"Actually..." I clear my throat and try to sound confident, like all those Academy girls. I beat them, didn't I? Haven't I earned my right to be here? They cannot reach me now, no matter how much it feels like they can. "Actually, in One, people prefer blondes."

The prep team stare at me.

"But..." the red and gold one says, one maroon eyebrow raised. "Who cares?"

I look at her. Properly. Her nails are bold red with gold glitter; her eyes shine gold, and her lips shine red, like her dress, which is embroidered with sparkling detail. Her hair is so vibrantly red and gold, it looks like it's on fire. And none of that is real. She chose to look like that.

The pink girl nods. She is completely pink, from the tips of her needle-sharp mohican to the end of her dyed-pink toes, peeking out from her strappy bubblegum-pink shoes. Little three dimensional flowers stick out from her nails, each one placed with extreme care and attention to detail. Her pink lips grin at me: a real, genuinely happy smile.

The blue Capitolite has intricate navy designs over every inch of her skin. She has no hair at all and gem stones for eyes. Her dress looks like it was made from the Summer sky, and her shoes look as though they were crafted from the stars.

No one in One looks like any of these people.

They look good.

The four of us all look so different from each other, we could be from different universes. And, yet, we are all stunning.

District One blondes all look the same.

"Yeah," I say, looking down at my nails and wondering if I could borrow some nail polish and a few tiny pink flowers. "Who cares."

* * *

 _Saige Tremaine, District Eleven Female_

 _Parade, 9pm_

* * *

"Ready?"

I look down at my vine-like costume, then look straight back up so my grape crown doesn't fall off. _Head up, Saige. Stand tall._

"I'm ready."

I can hear the crowd who line the parade already going wild as the District One pair rides out. My little district partner, Barnett, nods, and we step up onto the chariot.

My heart is either in my mouth or beating up my stomach. Or possibly, from how my insides feel, both at the same time. I'm not sure I can deal with this. How many people will there be? A thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? Every cell of my body wants to be gone from this chariot and back home, listening to my parents complaining about work while I cook them tea.

 _Stay strong, Saige. Don't lose yourself._

That's what my mother said.

 _Don't forget how to be the wonderful, caring girl everyone loves._

That's what my father said.

Oh, no, I've failed them already. I can't do that. _Come on, Saige. Caring._ Who can I care for here, though?

Barnett gives a little whimper. He's only twelve, he must be terrified. I'll bet he's missing home at least as much as I am. He cried on the train the whole way here, and woke me up with his screaming at night. Nightmares. The poor thing.

"Hey," I whisper as the chariot starts moving. "Barnie."

His dark eyes look up at me, and I forget to worry about myself for a second. My hand finds his and he smiles at me.

 _There we go._

And we're out of the gateway and staring at thousands of people. They all stare back. They're all examining me; searching for my weaknesses; hunting down my every flaw. They all hate me, they all think I'm going to die. I _am_ going to die...

 _Stay strong, Saige._

Oh, Mummy, I'm trying, I promise I am.

Barnie grips my hand so tight I think he'll pull it off, but I hold on and try to smile at the crowds. I can rise above these nerves. Me and Barnie, we can do this. Together.

But all the people... My breaths are becoming shallower and my heart is beating so fast, I think it will kill me.

 _Focus, Saige. Distract yourself. Think of something happy._

Eleven. Home. That's where I was happy. _What can you remember?_ Trees. Fields stretching forever, and orchards with blossoming fruit trees all in rows, pale petals falling from their branches like snow. The faces of people when I help them: the little girl I gave an apple to and the old man I helped home and the boy I... And... And...

I can't do this. I think I'm going to cry. And then they'll all think I'm weak.

 _Nononono..._

Barnie is gripping my hand even harder, and I can barely feel my fingers. His eyes are glassy and his cheeks are damp. _You're not the only scared one, Saige._ His shoulders shake.

 _Be the wonderful, caring girl everyone loves._

I drop to my knees, ignoring my grape crown as it slips from my head and falls off the chariot, and I pull Barnie into a big hug. At first, he freezes, but then he nestles his little face into my neck. I'm sure he's destroying the intricate hairstyle my stylist took an hour over, and I'm sure my mentor will kill me for this. But I don't care. All that matters is that Barnie feels better.

The chariot stops at the end of the parade run, ready for the president's welcome.

"Alright, Barnie?" I whisper in his ear.

"Yeah. Thanks, Saige."

We stand tall, hand in hand, as the president speaks.


	5. Ragual & Digitella

**so this was supposed to be posted on saturday. but, y'know, life got in the way. stupid life.**

 **this is training part one, narrated by Raguel Cordero of Ten and Digitella Pixella of Three. if you want to see the weapon Raguel is using, google 'atlatl' and go on images. it's seriously an awesome thing. they reckon it was one of the main reasons mammoths became extinct.**

 **the more you know...**

 **and, when you've finished reading this, go over to TheFisher's account and submit to her syot because she's a great author and you'll love it. :)**

 **now go forth and read! :D**

* * *

 _Raguel Cordero, District Ten Male_

 _Training Day One. 10am._

* * *

Training. The most important part of the pre-Games process. Back in Ten, I was a security guard, but there will be no guns or tasers in the arena. I know nothing of how to kill someone without firepower.

I wish it could stay that way.

But I'm not stupid: if I want to get home, I will have to kill at least one person. And I promised Tabitha and Gavin and Aya that I would get home to them.

I don't break promises.

Everyone has scattered to different training stations: the pair from One are throwing knives with terrifying accuracy; the girl from Two and boy from Four are sparring with practice swords; and a couple of younger tributes are already nearing the top of the ropes course. I don't want to train with any of them. I want to train alone.

Right at the back, there is a rack of weapons that nobody has touched yet. I've never seen anything like them before: a long pole with an extruding notch at one end, sort of like a hook - but blunt. My curiosity draws me over and I lift one, testing its weight, eyeing up the targets at the far end of the station.

"You don't throw it."

I turn to see a trainer in a navy uniform. He smiles at me. "It's an atlatl."

"A what?"

"An atlatl. A very old weapon used to throw long darts. Want to see?"

I raise an eyebrow, but nod. Being able to use an unusual weapon could be useful. The careers might leave any ata-whatsits behind in their cornucopia raid, and then I'd have a useful weapon for free. And I'll need anything that could possibly help me when I'm in the arena.

The trainer - whose name tag reads 'Jaxon' - picks up a sharpened bolt from the rack and slides it to the end of the atl-thing, so it's up against the extruding notch, held in place by his fingers. He draws his arm back, then swings the weapon forward, sending the bolt flying in a stright line, directly into the centre of the target with a _thunk_.

"Your turn."

* * *

 _Digitella Pixella, District Three Female_

 _Training Day One. 1pm._

* * *

Fifteen minutes into lunch and the awkward silence that once lay over the room like a thick blanket of fog has almost evaporated. The quiet hubub of small talk fills the room, occasionally broken by a moment of sudden awkward silence, as though the whole room has spontaneously turned into avoxes.

In the centre of the room, a tightly-knit group of six careers talk loudly, their laughs echoing over the rest of the room's small talk. Everyone is at least slightly aware of them, their presence hovering over the room.

Digitella observes this from her corner, amused. "Idiots," she mutters to no one in particular. "Weaklings."

The girl behind her pauses in her conversation with her you g district partner and turns around. "Sorry, were you talking to me?" It's a geniune question.

"Urm, no," Digitella says, mimicking the girl's voice. "Though you are an idiot weakling, too, Eleven."

The girl from Eleven grits her teeth and tries to smile, determined not to be wound up. "My name is Saige."

"I don't care. You're an idiot. Kindness will win you nothing in the Games. Your little attention-seeking huggles with your brat district partner only showed you up as a pathetic victim."

Saige takes a deep breath and tries to think of any kind of comeback.

"Speechless, hm? That's because it's true." Digitella's smirk is infuriating.

"Oy." The girl opposite Saige leans over the table menacingly.

"What's up, Nine? Frizzy hair needs shaving off? I can do that." Digitella fixes her new, more interesting target with a taunting stare. It is a challenge; an unspoken question: _will you let me push you around?_ "And I may as well take you head off as well."

The girl from Nine shakes her hair from her face, pushing her chair back with an ear-splitting screech as she stands. "I'd like to see you try, freckles."

Silence encases the hall as Digitella gets to her feet as well, growling through her teeth. "Take that back. My parents torture people like you, you little-"

"Where are you parents now, eh? Here? Are they turning up this afternoon to take you home for nap-time?"

"Ericea..." Saige reaches out to her friend from Nine, but is ignored.

"Why, you-" Digitella lunges for Ericea, reaching for her throat, ready to squeezesqueeze _squeeze_ the life out of her, wanting to feel her pulse as it stops, needing to-

Two strong hands grab hold of the kicking girl from Three, carrying her away effortlessly. The trainer sets her down at the edge of the hall, and, loud and clear in the silent room, declares, sternly: "violence before the Games is strictly prohibited. Remove yourself."

Digitella scowls past him at Ericea. "You've made an enemy, Nine!"

"Remove yourself!"

A moment of tense silence follows her echoing footsteps.

The trainer turns to face the wide-eyed tributes, nods, then departs.

And, at the middle table, the careers raise their eyebrows at each other as Ericea sits back down and the chatter returns.

* * *

 _Raguel Cordero, District Ten Male_

 _Training Day One. 2pm._

* * *

Jaxon made this weapon look a lot easier to use than it actually is. I've been trying for at least four hours now, and am getting better and better with every throw. But I am still not perfect.

It took me an hour to get the hang of even throwing it right, and I only got the bolts to stick a couple of hours ago. I first hit the target dead-on after three hours of practice, and I still can't quite pronounce the name of the damned thing. Now, I am timing myself. Ten bolts in thirty seconds is the aim.

So far, my best is ten in thirty-two.

Bolt. Load. Swing. _Thunk_. Bolt, load, swing, _thunk_. Boltloadswing _thunk._

I start the countdown on the stopwatch and begin.

 _Thunk._ One. _Thunkthunk._ Three. _Thunk._ Four. _Thunk. Thunkthunk._ Seven.

Nine seconds left. Three more bolts.

 _Thunk._ Eight. Seven. Six.

 _Thunk._ Five. Four. Three. Two...

 _Thunk._ One.

The breath I was holding in comes whistling out, and my knees nearly give way. I didn't go to lunch for fear of wasting time. Maybe I should take a break now; go do some plants...

No. Just because I did it once doesn't mean I am good enough yet.

I wrap my worn fingers around another bolt and restart the stopwatch.

 _Thunk._

There'd better be an atlatl in that arena.


	6. Finn & Levi

**not gonna lie, guys, i'm not really feeling the love. i know it wasn't a great chapter, but i didn't think it was bad enough to deserve to completely be ignored? :'( at least tell me why it wasn't interesting?**

 **anyway, here's a brand new chapter, all shiny and new and not as good (or long) as the previous chapters. but chapter six will be better! come on, rue. pick up your game...**

 **this is a sort of evenings-of-training-days chapter (so, when the tributes get back to their apartments after training), narrated by two boys: Finn Buccin and Levi Burke.**

 **enjoy!**

* * *

 _Finn Buccin, District Four Male_

 _Training Day One. 7pm._

* * *

So, District Four is my home, and I love it, but, wow, is the Capitol amazing. It's the very definition of luxurious: huge, soft double beds; rich, flavoursome foods that aren't made of just fish (I love fish, don't get me wrong, but they do get sorta boring after eighteen years, you know?); thick carpets and obedient servants and crazy, over-complicated showers. Everything is metallic or luxurious or expensive (or all three), and it must be great to live here, but...

Well. It's not exactly home. The smell of the sea doesn't cling to everything, and the sounds of the waves aren't there to soothe you to sleep every night. One of my walls tries to simulate it, but it's rubbish. It's not the same at all.

One thing that is the same, though, is training. Or, rather, someone constantly nagging me about training. At home, it was Mum; here, it's Naida. Urgh.

Naida is my mentor. She won about nine years ago or something, after training religiously from the age of five - or basically from the day she could hold a trident. Her main tip for success is to give up your entire life and forget how to have fun, in the name of putting loads of effort into training.

But I just can't be bothered with that, you know?

As you can guess, Naida and I don't perticularly get on.

So, for example: I like to sleep in. Waking up early just doesn't sit right with me at all, so I normally get up around ten, have a slow breakfast, then maybe a shower, lounge around a bit... Nadia, of course, doesn't agree. Training officially starts in the gym at nine with a talk from the Head Trainer, and apparently we have to be there at least fifteen minutes early (to... I don't know, check out the competition or whatever she said), so we are supposed to be getting up every day at seven at the latest, so we can fit in a 'quick' workout before official training.

I didn't get up at seven. I got up at ten. Or, I would've done if Naida hadn't shaken me awake awake at the crazy hour of half eight. Half eight! And then I wasn't even allowed a coffee, because apparently 'caffiene is a poison' and 'you don't get lattes in the arena.' But then, of course, she complains (again!) when I can barely keep my eyes open, and gets mad when I can't tell her what she just said, because I was trying to stay awake. Crazy. Seriously mental.

She's still going on at me now. Apparently she told me to go for a run during the time she spent talking with Myranda, my keen-ass district partner. But I don't remember ever agreeing to that, so I didn't go for a run (why would I, anyway? I have a Capitol broadcast about boats to watch). So now she's having a major go at me.

"Finn, you need to take your training more seriously! If you do not put effort into being at your physical pinnicle, you will never make it as a victor! What is your best skill?"

I roll my eyes. "Not bursting a blood vessel about pointless runs."

"Finn Buccin! Running is vital for tributes! Petra from Two was saying her pair ran for two hours every morning back in her district. And then did an extra hour-long run in the afternoon, as well as skills training, strength training..."

Blah, blah, blah. She'll move onto how perfect Myranda is in a minute, and talk about her 'outstanding work ethic.' Whatever. Myranda is way too keeen.

"Now, Myranda, she has an excellent work ethic. And she is a good runner: she does running at least twice a..."

I really don't care. This just doesn't interest me at all. And how is she even still talking? What else is there to say?

"... So will you do that tomorrow, Finn?"

"Mmhmm, sure." You have to agree to whatever she says or she goes on another massive rant.

"Good. Go set an alarm now."

Urm... Nope. Naida, I do not need your help. Go tell someone who wants to hear your whiney voice. Who likes hearing your voice? Only yourself.

Urgh, that boring speech has made me so tired. I wonder if there are any more good Capitol broadcasts on about boats...

* * *

 _Levi Burkes, District Eight Male_

 _Training Day Two. 9pm._

* * *

My dearest Oskar,

I must say, I have somewhat lost my passion for the Capitol. As you know, my father is an appreciated designer here, and therefore, as a child, I visited this majestic city frequently, so as not to be left alone at home. The lights, the colours, the people... As a child, I was enchanted. To an extent, I still am. But it is also overshadowed by the fact that, in a little over three days, I will have to begin the fight for my life.

Oskar, I am not sure I can do that.

You do not like talking about the Games, and I understand that, but, whether we like it or not, they are now a part of my life: either the beginning or the end.

Oh, Oskar. I try to stay optimistic, I really do. But there are so many strong tributes this year, as you noted. Even the girl from Three - a little fourteen-year-old - seems to be confident enough to antagonise a career, and the careers themselves are as terrifying as you warned they would be. The girl from One has style, but also a loud, whiney voice that rings through the Training Centre's gym constantly, calling "Jaaaasssppeeeerrr, look at thiiisss!" and "Oh, Fiiiinn, that's soooo amazing!" and "Andronicus, do you like my haaaaiiirr?" Her hair isn't even that special; it's not even blonde. Who lets a girl from One volunteer who isn't blonde?! It's ridiculous. The other careers are less boisterous, but that worries me more. Especially the boy from One. He seems to be watching constantly. And the girls from Two and Four both appear to have a strong personality, and a lot of determination.

I do so wish I was here for the boutiques and not the Games. We would have such fun along the street I can see from my window, flitting from shop to shop like rainbow butterflies, shopping and laughing and not worrying about fighting at all...

The thing is, Oskar, I am not sure I am as strong as you were. I know you told me not to watch it, but they were playing reruns of your Games and... Oskar, you were so brave, my love. So strong and courageous in the face of terror.

You are by my side now, as my mentor, and I am trying to follow your every word of advice, but I do not know how I will cope when I am alone in the arena.

Perhaps I will come to home to live with you in Victors' Village, and we can mentor future generations of tributes, and deal with the pain together.

I love you, all the way to the Capitol...

... And back.

Yours eternally,

~ Levi xx


	7. Jasper & Emberly

**so, yeah, this is late. and, yeah, it's also really short. i'm sorry. but here is some more training stuff, narrated by Jasper Quarz from One (urgh his pov is so awful i'm sorry) and Emberly Fritz from Twelve (argh she isn't much better). enjoy. :)**

 ***collapses into tired heap***

* * *

 _Jasper Quartz, District One Male_

 _Training Day Two. 10am._

* * *

To be perfectly honest, the training days aren't for proper training at all. Well, maybe they are for the outer districts - the weaklings from Eight and Nine who barely even know what an axe is - but for people like me, who will actually put up a decent fight in the arena, the training days are about showing the others who's boss. Showing the Gamemakers your assets; showing the other tributes that they should be scared of you.

That's what my father always told me. "Jasper," he used to say, "weapons and physical skill: they are important. But what will give you the edge is intelligence. Too many boys from One have died of stupidity. No son of mine will do that. And what is the smart thing?"

"To know the other tributes, father. To watch them, understand them, and make them fear you. Then they will know who to run from in the Arena."

You would think it would be quite rare to be trained by your own father. It is. Especially, I have heard, in Two, where everything is done in Academies. But my father was a true believer in being the best, and if my trainers in the Academy didn't teach me fast enough or challenge me enough, my father would help me be better.

At least, he did. Until I was fourteen, when he died.

I swore I would win in his honour; in his memory. And no one will stop me. Not even my so-called alliance. In fact, especailly not my allies: I've got them worked out already. Gianna, the whiney excuse for this year's female volunteer, needs love and attention to have confidence to go on, so leaving her alone will break her; who knows why Andronicus of Two was selected because he barely knows what he's doing with a sword; his partner, Calypso, is pretty good with a bow, but far too loyal for her own good, so back-stabbing will be easy; Myranda of Four is determined, but at any kind of long range, she won't be able to do anything to defend against an axe to the head. And then there's Finn, who doesn't even turn up to training on time.

That's my alliance. A bunch of fools. Once I've dealt with them, the outer districts won't be any kind of issue.

Seriously, I've got this. In a couple of weeks, I'll be the sexiest, smartest victor Panem has ever seen.

I'll show everyone. I'll be amazing. I'll shine brighter than the sun.

I'll do my dad proud.

* * *

 _Emberly Fritz, District Twelve Female_

 _Training Day Two. 11am._

* * *

There's a huge net that runs above the entire training gym, stetching over everything. It must be at least three metres up. Being up there would feel amazing: like flying. Like floating.

The thing is, there isn't an obvious way up, so I'll have to use the walls or the dummies or some fake trees in the survival section. Since the careers are constantly throwing sharp things at the dummies, it's probably safer to go up a tree.

So, of course, I'm going up a dummy. It'll be so much more fun.

Over by the wall is a person-shaped target that looks less used. Calypso is firing arrows at the one next to it, but that's fine. She's a good shot; I won't get hit. Probably.

Except for the slight grooves from arrows and knives that just missed, the plastic is smoother than anything I ever touched in Twelve. I haul myself up onto the target's shoulders as an arrow whistles into the neighbouring target. Under my calves, the plastic seems more curved than expected.

From the shoulders, it's all about standing up and then pulling myself up into the netting. Up from the slippy shoulders... Into the only-just-reachable netting.

Simple.

Another arrow zooms into the target. _How close was that to me?_

Before I can stop myself, I pull my feet up to where I was kneeling and grab onto the ropes above the course to steady myself. The stability they give me is like a huge breath of clean air after a morning in the mines. My arms strain and complain as I pull myself up into the netting. _I'mgoingtoslip..._

But I make it.

I get there, and I can see the whole gym from up here, from the cocky careers to the tiny, wide-eyed twelve-year-olds hiding in the survival skills section. And the Gamemakers, watching - or rather, not watching.

That's just typical, isn't it? I've just done something geniunely impressive and they didn't even see. Oh, well. I know it happened, and I feel awesome about it. How far up am I? At least metres, I would say. As I look down, I can feel the adrenaline still pumping through me from the moment I thought I was going to fall. It brings the world into razor-sharp focus, and I can see everything; I can smell the entire room; every tired, determined breath is loud in my ears; every fibre of rope under my fingers is so _real._

I am alive.

Back home, Cayden and I used to go looking for this feeling. We would meet at the end of my road after curfew, our excited eyes glinting at each other in the starlight, our hearts already racing. Then we would go exploring the mines with our hearts in our mouths, listening for anything breaking or getting lost in the woods and running back to the fence before dawn, racing the sun home.

The sudden wave of grief, homesickness and longing is so heavy, I fall off the netting, only just catching myself when I hit the floor, winded but uninjured.

Calypso raises an eyebrow at me and her lip curls scornfully. But I bet she hasn't even noticed the ropes.


	8. Marco & Ericea

**don't worry, guys. i'm alive. just. and now i have a bit more time, i'm desperately trying to get these last few intros done before i go away.**

 **here's the evaluations and results, narrated by Ericea Leister and Marco Weiss. the full list of scores is at the bottom (because i know you all want to know how your babies did).**

 **enjoy. :3**

* * *

 _Ericea Leister, District Nine Female_

 _Evaluations. 1pm._

* * *

 _Alright, Ericea. Let's do this._

I wrap my hands around the scythe, lifting it and testing its weight. It's lighter than the ones I'm used to, and probably sharper, but I should be able to deal with that.

 _Correction: I_ will _be able to deal with that._

Slowly, I turn on my heel and look at the circle of dummies around me. The Gamemakers are watching, but that doesn't matter, because I can do this. I can. Their judgement doesn't matter.

Well, it does, but...

I pull the scythe back and begin.

Two years ago, when I was twelve, my life changed: my sister's boyfriend was reaped, and I watched as her world shattered when he was brutally murdered in the bloodbath. He didn't even survive an hour. We were all devastated, and I vowed that, if I were ever reaped, I would know how to survive. I would come home.

That afternoon, I went out to the fields. The sun shining down, as hot as hell itself, and I picked up a scythe for the first time in my life. The first time of many.

And here I am. Using a scythe to harvest bodies rather than corn, but still being damn good at it.

 _Left, right, dodge, sweep, dodge, right, left, sweep._

One sweep and two heads come off; another swing brings my scythe into the torso of another dummy, and then follows through into the side of of the one next to it. Nothing else exists but me and my scythe and my enemies. I cannot afford to look at the Gamemakers. I have to focus.

Only when I have delivered the final blow to the last dummy do I stop to look up at the Gamemakers, to see if they even saw; to try and read their reactions.

It's fairly easy to read.

Every single Gamemaker is staring at me and the mess of manikins around me. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses that were prominent when I walked in have gone, replaced by an avox-like silence that is broken only by the sound of my heavy breathing.

Yeah. I think I did alright.

* * *

 _Marco Weiss, District Twelve Male._

 _Evaluations. 4pm._

* * *

I don't know how far away from each other the two furthest points in Twelve are, but I do know how long it takes to run between them: a day and a half. That's a long time to be running for. Most people wouldn't even be able to run for that long, let alone to make it that distance.

But I can. And I've proved it no less than seven times. Seven.

You could say I'm quite a good runner. And you would be right. Because I am.

Running has probably saved my life.

Everyone knows Twelve is the mining district, but only citizens of Twelve know what that means. It means coal dust being deeply ingrained in everything, running in your veins like blood. It means the echoing coughs heard in the silence of the square on Reaping day. It means tired eyes and forever having dirty skin and awful incomes and it means the groups of mining widows that flock to the black market every evening. It means having a mother that can't work because of an accident, and growing up knowing that your future is made of coal and darkness.

Running let my sister and I escape that. It may be tough sometimes, running errands and delivering messages all day, but it is worth it every day, if just for the knowledge that little Elle won't end up like our mother.

The doors into the gym slide open and Emberly's slight frame slips through.

"How'd it go?" I ask.

She shrugs. "They didn't even watch me. I pulled myself up to the very top of the gym using only my own arm strength, and they didn't even acknowledge my existence." She kicks the wall. "We've been given up on, and they haven't even met us. Bloody Gamemakers. Stupid Games..."

I pull her into a hug, her head pressed into my shoulder. It's the same place Elle's head goes when I hug her. "We'll show them," I mutter. "Right?"

She nods, smiling her lopsided smile at me. "Good luck, Marco."

"Thanks."

I walk through to the gym, instantly assaulted by the sounds of some Gamemakers laughing some - apparently hilarious - joke. Emberly was right: none of them are watching.

The bastards.

My legs shoulder-width apart and my jaw set, I look up at the Gamemakers.

"Marco Weiss," I announce. A couple look down, then turn back again. Dismissing me as unworthy of their attention. How dare they.

With a sharp turn of my heel, I aim for the far end of the gym. Like a fire is fuelled by coal, I am fuelled by anger. One poke and I am alight.

I begin to run.

* * *

"So you'd run for how long before they tried to stop you?" Emberly's eyes shine in the light of the lounge's chandelier.

"About twenty minutes." I can't stop the grin from stretching across my face.

"And how long did you run for in the end?" Her dark curls flow down her shoulders like water.

"An hour."

"An hour!" She laughs, a wild, thrilled laugh that I can imagine would have lit up any grey morning back in Twelve.

"Yeah, they had to send in six avoxes to catch me and escort me out."

"Man, you're dead..." Her laughter stops abruptly. "Sorry, I... I didn't mean..."

"No, it's okay." My smile creeps back as I remember the faces of the Gamemakers. "I think I made a pretty strong point."

Emberly laughs again, her chipped front tooth revealled. "You definitely did."

We grin. The consequences may be severe, but, for now, we have won.

* * *

 _Ericea Leister, District Nine Female_

 _Results Time. 7pm._

* * *

This sofa is too soft. It seems to be trying to swallow me up. Someone should tell it that it is too late, because my nerves have already done that.

My idiot district partner, Farrow, is sitting with his knees against the wall, muttering to himself. He's been there for at least two hours. I doubt he even turned up to his evaluation today - or, if he did, he probably just sat there. Oh, well, it's less competition, I guess. For some reason, our escort is trying to convince him to come watch the results with us. Which is pointless. She'll work out that he's a lost cause eventually.

My mentor, Flynn, looks at Farrow's mentor, Shay, and their dark brown eyes pass messages between them like friends in class.

"Ready?" His voice is soft.

"No," Shay whispers.

"Me neither."

And suddenly I'm back at home, two years ago, my little twelve-year-old self watching my dad comforting my sister as the first day of the 122nd Hunger Games comes into focus on the screen. The sofa is worn and fraying under my fingers and the power has cut from our lights so that the screen can work. Doom fills the shadows.

 _Deep breaths, Ericea. You can do this. Stay present._

I can't focus on the scores because I'm too busy trying to keep my breathing steady and my mind away from my sister and home and two years ago. The more I try, the harder it is to not think about it.

 _Ericea! Please! Listen!_

"Farrow Beaumont, with a score of... Erm. One."

Shay's face crumples, and Flynn reaches for her hand. Farrow doesn't seem to have heard, although he isn't watching the wall quite so closely any more. I think he's watching a bug fly around the room.

"Ericea Leister."

My head snaps back towards the screen. _Come on, come on, come on..._ I am shaking, my hands caught up in my frizzy hair, winding its dark strands around and around and around and-

"Nine."

That's a career score! That's a sponsor-winning score!

 _Nailed it._

* * *

 **Scores :D**

 **1F (Gianna): 8**

 **1M (Jasper): 10**

 **2F (Calypso): 10**

 **2M (Andronicus): 7**

 **3F (Digitella): 6**

 **3M: 3**

 **4F (Myranda): 9**

 **4M (Finn): 8**

 **5F (Mecha): 7**

 **5M: 5**

 **6F (Ascension): 6**

 **6M: 4**

 **7F: 5**

 **7M: 6**

 **8F (Cavandar): 6**

 **8M (Levi): 3**

 **9F (Ericea): 9**

 **9M (Farrow): 1**

 **10F (Nora): 3**

 **10M (Raguel): 8**

 **11F (Saige): 6**

 **11M: 5**

 **12F (Emberly): 6**

 **12M (Marco): 7**


	9. Calypso & Ascension

**miss speedy updates is back! go rue!**

 **so this is the interviews, narrated by Calypso Abelecher of Two and Ascension "Aise" Mahina of Six (the occasional third person in her pov is intentional. she's just like that). and i know i'm probably not supposed to have favourites but i totally do and, yeah, these girls are among them.**

 **so enjoy. :) they do swear a bit, though. sorry 'bout that.**

 **also, once you've finished you review (;D), go submit to Josephm611's syot, Under The Sun. it's gonna be epic. :D**

 **p.s: if you want to know how your tribute (or any tribute) got the result they did in their evaluations, pm me, because i've actually thought about most of them, so i can probably tell you. :3**

* * *

 _Calypso Abelecher, District Two Female_

 _Interviews. 8pm._

* * *

I'm not normally one for pretty dresses and pretending to be a princess, but this dress does make me look good. Regal. Not like a princess; like a queen.

A queen who is ready for a victor's crown.

Alina, my stylist, tucks a strand of my brown hair behind my ear, watching the gold strands she has laced into it as they shimmer and compliment my dark skin.

"Thank you," I say.

"Time to go."

Together, we take the elevator down to the waiting area, where the other tributes are beginning to arrive. Gigi is already here, gushing to a slightly bored Myranda and Andronicus about, I don't know, something irrelevant. Jasper is standing a little way off, talking to his mentor, and Finn is nowhere to be seen. Of course.

"Callieeee!" A dark-haired whirlwind of pre-show nerves and standard hyperness attacks me with a hug. I hate it when she calls me that.

"Hi, Gigi."

"Don't touch her hair!" cries Alina. "That took ages!"

But Gigi doesn't listen; she's too busy enjoying the sound of her own voice. "... And oh my PANEM, have you seen these shoes? Aren't they just DIVINE, I love them sooo much..."

Alina scowls and gives up, mouthing 'good luck' at me before disappearing off with Andronicus's stylist to take her place in the audience.

I should pribably listen to what Gigi is saying, but I really don't care, so I move over to Andronicus instead. He looks like he's about to throw up.

"You okay, Andie?"

He jumps a mile. "What? Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Ever since the reaping day, he's been really weird. I've trained alongside Andie for about five years now, and he's been a cocky asshole the whole time. And yet, these last few days, he hasn't been like that at all. He just hasn't been him. I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or not.

"You don't look fine."

"Oh. I'm just... A bit nervous. You know..."

"Nervous?" What the hell? Andie's never nervous.

"No. No, I mean... Of course I'm fine. After all, I have nothing to be nervous about because I'm the best."

"What is up with you?"

For a second, there is some panic in his eyes. "Nothing. I'm the best out of everyone here. I'm perfect."

Before I can probe further, a lime green producer appears, brandishing a clipboard and calling that we need to get into order, shut up, and Gianna needs to be on stage in two minutes, so could she get herself into the wings right now this second please?

The bubbling background noise of nervous chatter stops, allowing Gigi's squeal of "Oh my Panem, wish me luck, everyone!" to be heard (not that it wouldn't have been heard), followed by the producer's hasty "shush! We're going live!"

Sure enough, Hypatius Glowman's beaming face has appeared on all the live backstage screens, followed by a shot of Gigi sashaying across the stage on her 'divine' (too high) heels, all smiles and hair flips and kisses blown to the crowd. She may not look like your standard One girl, but she certainly acts like one.

Jasper, when he arrives onstage, is the exact opposite: he looks like a boy from One, but just doesn't quite act like one. He's trying to play it down, I think, but it's obvious as he talks to Hypatius that he's smarter than he looks.

"Calypso Abelecher," the producer hisses. "Backstage, please."

All too soon, I'm in the wings, hearing my name being called out again to the whole of Panem. And then I step out into the light and hundreds of faces are staring at me, watching my every move and judging me for it. My gut twists.

Screw them. I'm not here for them. I'm here for me and my brother and my late sister.

"Calypso," Hypatius croons.

I remember to smile as I sit down. "Hypatius."

"Calypso, you seem very confident."

"Of course, Hypatius. Why should I not be?" I wink at the audience, trying to ignore all the individual faces. Trying to be as confident as I apparently seem.

Hypatius laughs. "Yes, well, you got one of the highest training scores this year. What did you do to get that score?"

"I am very driven. If I want something, it is almost impossible to stop me from getting it."

"And what is it you want?"

I smile, feeling the audience watch me. "The victor's crown on my head."

A huge cheer from the audience confirms that I am doing this right. Relief floods me, and I realise just how nervous I was.

"What would that mean, Calypso? What would life as a Victor be like?"

"It would mean a safe home for myself and my brother, away from my parents." Shit. I shouldn't have said that. I'm supposed to be being strong and without weaknesses. The relief has weakened my mental filter, making me honest; making me vulnerable. I need to switch the subject to something else.

But Hypatius's eyes have lit up wih the thrill of this weakness of mine. He turns to the audience. "The tough exterior is covering a compassionate interior! Love is her motive! This is very rare for a girl from Two."

No. No, they can't see me as weak. That's the only thing my mentor said: don't let them see you as anything but a warrior.

"Not love."

"Oh?" The audience is loving this. Which is good, I guess...

"Anger."

"At?"

"My parents."

"Your parents... And why is that, Calypso? What have they done?"

Nothing. That's why I hate them. Nothing but sell my sister off to the Games for their own gains. Nothing for me or my brother, Rashien. That's why I'm doing this: so I can look after Rashien myself, away from them and their uncaring ways.

But I can't say that.

Instead, I give Hypatius a mischevious smile, wink at the audience again, and say, "well, I can't tell you that. I have to have some secrets, don't I?"

He smiles back as the crowd goes wild, then takes my hand and holds it aloft. I stand as he announces: "Calypso Abelecher!"

And I'm done. Phew. I revealled way too much about myself there.

My mentor is going to kill me.

* * *

 _Ascension "Aise" Mahina, District Six Female_

 _Interviews. 8.15pm or something; who cares?_

* * *

Sweet Panem, this is tedious. I have to wait over an hour for only three minutes of stage time, the producer keeps shushing everyone and my dress is way too long. Aise does not like long dresses, because then no one can see her - quite honestly stunning - legs. If you have it, flaunt it. And Aise has it.

The boy from Two is only just leaving the stage, and the producer-bitch (who doesn't even suit lime green, what the hell?) is busy trying to to the weirdo girl from Three onto the stage. There's a lovely dress in my dressing room. It's much nicer than this one. If I left now...

Like the majestic leopard-queen that I am, I slink out of the backstage area, undoing my dress as I go. I have it over my head by the time the elevator gets to the right floor, and my hair isn't even messed up. Go me.

Multiple Aises stare at me from all the floor-to-ceiling mirrors as I stroll in and throw the gross dress to one side. Damn, does Aise look good without any clothes on. No one pulls off blonde hair and black skin like her, especially when her hair is down and brushing the small of her back like you know your fingers want to. Sweet, sixteen and sexy. If I weren't me, I'd kiss myself right now.

Anyway. We all know I'm gorgeous. I need that dress.

It's on the side bench, next to the makeup table. I slip it on, the fabric soft on my skin like a girl's lips. The hem comes down to the top of my thighs and the neckline drops as low as the IQ of the girl from One. Just kidding, it's not that low. Haha, I'm hilarious! The whole thing leaves very little to the imagination, though.

Because no one's imagination can come up with anything better than the real Aise.

With the matching killer heels slung over my shoulder, I strut past the mirrors, giving myself a cheeky little wink, and get back into the elevator, checking my nails on my way down.

The doors open to relative chaos.

"Where is she?!" the lime bitch is hissing, looking and sounding remarkably like a snake with a clipboard.

"Who are you looking for?" I ask.

"There you are!" The producer-snake looks at its watch. "You're on in about twenty seconds!"

Before I can protest or even get my shoes on, I am being pushed into the wings as Hypatius Glowman finishes announcing my name.

"Go!"

I give the snake a signature Aise wink and the middle finger, then strut out onto the stage, barefoot, my sexiest smile all over my face.

I yell: "Aise has arrived!"

And the crowd goes wild.

Bitches, I have got this.


	10. Mecha & Myranda

**argh i didn't quite finish this in time. i'm so sorry. and it took ages... and they're not even a decent length... D:**

 **but it's here now: the last two intro povs. i present Mecha Cordin of Five and Myranda Lidano of Four, narrating the ride to the arena.**

 **after this will be a little interlude (ooh mysterious...) and then the games will begin.**

 **enjoy! :D**

* * *

 _Mecha Cordin, District Five Female_

 _Launch day. 7am._

* * *

It's way too early to be getting into a hovercraft to go to the Hunger Games. Actually, I'm not sure it's ever _not_ too early to be going into the Hunger Games. I'm not exactly relishing the thought of fighting for my own survival against a load of meatheads and scrawny slum kids, especially not when the entire Capitol - the whole of freaking Panem - watching.

Lots of fun.

The guard helps me to my seat and does up my seatbelt. Which is ridiculous, to be honest, because I know how to do up my own damn seatbelt. Duh. I probably know more about this seatbelt than the guard. Or, at least, I would, if I had a screwdriver.

But apparently that's "not a suitable token". Whatever. It's not like I could take down the whole career pack with a screwdriver or something.

Well...

The last tribute has boarded, so the guard has begun to walk up the row, giving everyone a weird-ass, blue, glowing injection. What the hell is it? Some sort of med? Are they knocking us out or something? They can't just inject us without telling us what it is.

The guard gets to me. "Give me your arm."

"No."

"It is not optional." They just grab my arm and stab the needle thing into it, the blue glow exploding under my skin, infecting me, taking over my consciousness, stealing my senses... No. Nonono _nonono._..

And suddenly the hovercraft is moving but I can't breathe I think I've forgotten how to breathe I think my heart is going to explode and this seat is too small and the seatbelt is too tight and _save me I'm going to die help_

A hand grasps mine. Two dark eyes look at me from behind a curtain of dark hair that shines in the fake light.

"It's okay," she whispers, her lips wrapping around the sounds. "Breathe in. Breathe out. It's just a tracker. You'll be fine. In, out. In, out. Good. You're okay."

She teaches me how to breathe again and holds my hand as I slowly bring my heart rate back to normal. Her calm whispers are a lifeline that I cling to. They anchor me to reality.

 _Not cool, Mecha. I can't believe you had a full panic attack over a tracker._

At least I didn't pass out like last time, I guess. Urgh... I'm such an idiot.

"Okay?" the girl whispers.

I nod and she smiles, her whole thin face glowing.

"What's your name?"

"Mecha," I say. "District Five. I'm the one who caused a fire alarm the night before last by accidentally setting fire to a sofa."

She laughs, then her hand flies to her mouth as though her own laugh caught her off guard. "I'm Nora. District Ten. The one who got a two in training."

For possibly the first time in my life, I don't know what to say.

Nora looks down at her hands as though I just yelled at her and I want to say something to make her look at me again, but I can't think of anything.

Urgh, I'm such a mess. Oh, well.

* * *

 _Myranda Lidano, District Four Female_

 _Launch day. 8am._

* * *

I unleash a short string of swear words as the steward jabs me with her stick thing.

"Language," chides Finn, nestled into the seat beside me.

I tell him where he can stick it.

"Well, that's not very ladylike," he mutters.

If I weren't strapped in, I would slap him. But I am strapped in: tied down like luggage in a cabin on a stormy day. So I take a deep, calming breath instead. Focus. This is what you were born to do.

This is your purpose.

I can't imagine what I would've done if I'd stopped training at seventeen and not volunteered. For a while, I thought I would. But what would I be then? A sailor and a swimmer? How original. I would've been another girl going out in her family's boat with her siblings, sailing until Four fades to a smudge and swimming for hours. Eventually, I would've started fishing, probably either with Dad or Javon, then I would've married a well-off fisherman and become a housewife with eight kids. Just like every other girl in Four.

No. I couldn't live like that. It's comfortable, yes, and safe, and I would've been... Happy.

But not satisfied. That's no adventure.

Who wants safety anyway?

The hovercraft lands and I am escorted to my room. A net of new-building-smell ensnares everything and the air is damp and thick with anticipation. My long braid taps against my back with every step and I fight the urge to rip out the hair tie and let my red hair free.

Regina always says: "Myranda is a brave lion with a fire mane." She's only five, bless her, but loves her books and has an imagination that soars above the walls set out for her by Four. I'm teaching her to swim. She's scared, but wants to join in with my swimming trips with Kenya, so she's trying. Adventure calls her: she's a real Lidano girl.

And here it is. My door. 'District Four Female' reads the sign. The silver letters glint at me, their edges cutting me into little pieces. When I try it, the handle turns and the door opens silently.

An open door.

My open door.

I'm ready for an adventure.


	11. - Interlude -

**so, i present you with a wonderfully short, depressing and mysterious interlude! real games next chapter. :)**

 **enjoy~**

* * *

She wonders how long it has been. Days? Weeks? Months? Hours turn to years out here, stretching out like skeletal shadows in the evening sun. They lengthen and sharpen, wrapping around her tired limbs and tying her down. One day they will strangle her. She thinks that would be not unlike how it is now. Because isn't she already dying in this forest, her body slowly decomposing, eating itself from the inside. One day she will collapse and never get up.

Maybe that day will be today.

Thoughts like that make life difficult - not that this is really a life, more a mere existence, and barely that sometimes. She tries to avoid those thoughts. But the darkness of the forest is creeping in, squeezing out all the light in her eyes.

Walking has become like breathing: difficult, but necessary and not something she needs to think about to do. Sometimes she falls asleep and her feet keep going, one foot in front of the other, carrying her ghostly body onwards.

Maybe she is a ghost. Maybe she has died, and this is hell.

Maybe hell would be better than this.

She walks. She breathes. She thinks. She exists.

And then it appears.


End file.
